Bright Lights
by Anna Christy
Summary: A Las Vegas investigator calls the Winchesters for help on a serial murder case, but when the seemingly simple plan goes awry, Dean finds himself falling for the girl he's trying to save.
1. Intro

**Bright Lights**

_I do not own any of these lovely characters; they are solely the brainchildren of Eric Kripke and the folks at Warner Bros. _

_Takes place somewhere in the first half of Season 2. _

_There is a decent amount of violence and some implied sexuality, but I tried to edit down from a mature rating for the sake of the story. _

_This is a work in progress! Reviews are more than welcome; I am always in need of some egotistical flattery._

_Cheers!  
Anna_

* * *

"I love Vegas," Dean said, mashing his face against the window to get a better look at the approaching lights.

"Dean, you've never been here before." Sam searched for the right exit from the highway.

"Yeah, but, the vibe. You know."

"Dean."

"I'm not thinking about the strippers!" He protested, then paused. "Okay, okay. Maybe."

"Promise me you'll actually try to spend some serious time on this case," Sam insisted, glancing over from behind the wheel.

"Four hours of driving and he's already cranky," Dean muttered. "We'll check the place out, kill the witchy thing, then hit the strip. C'mon, Sammy. It's Vegas!"

Sam allowed a small corner of his mouth to smile. Dean saw it and grinned. This was a vacation.

The motel was small and dirty, a neon rainbow filtering through the thin curtains. "Affordable rates, charged by the half-hour." Dean raised an eyebrow at the flyer he had picked up. Sam dropped his black duffel and fell onto one of the creaky beds with a sigh of relief. The mattress smelled funny, he thought.

"You're going to sleep now?" Dean asked incredulously.

"It's 2am, Dean. Normal people get tired," was Sam's muffled reply. He wondered if he wanted to move to take his shoes off.

"I thought this was the town where no one slept," Dean retorted. Still, it had been an exhausting ride from Kentucky to Nevada, he admitted. He tossed his duffel to the floor and began peeling off his sweaty socks and shirt. Glancing over, he saw that Sam had already fallen into the heavy rhythm of deep slumber. Dean unpacked his hunting knife and slid into bed, tucking the knife under the pillow. Always be prepared. A couple blocks away a car alarm went off, mixing with a faint strain of salsa from two doors down. There were a few ghosts of scenes from past hunts that flitted through his memory, but he quickly blocked them out. He didn't have nightmares much anymore, and he sank slowly into the dark void.

Something was vibrating against his thigh. "Mmm..." He mumbled and smiled sleepily, then realized it was his cellphone. It was daylight and Sam was in the shower.

"Yeah?" A quick look at the ugly alarm clock gave him 8:14am.

"Dean? It's Larry."

The police investigator that had called them here. Dean ran a hand through hair that was still sticky with sweat. "Dude, it's a little early for a wake-up call."

"Trust me, you'll wanna hear this. I got another victim for you. Same situation and everything; goddamn nearly lost my breakfast omelet at the crime scene though. It's bad."

He frowned. "Where at?"

"Heavenly Angels Night Lounge."

"You're kidding."

"Ironic, right, I get it. You can get here soon?"

Dean dug around for a map. "Yeah, yeah. Gimme twenty minutes, tops." He snapped the phone shut and pounded on the bathroom door. "Sam! Let's go!" He considered picking up a coffee and bagel, then remembered what Mike had said about his omelet. This wasn't going to be pretty.


	2. Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter

"Morning, boys," Larry nodded as he led the two Winchesters past the yellow crime scene tape. The lounge was swarming with police and forensic teams, most of them coming from upstairs. There was the stale odor of alcohol and sweat lingering in the air and the dance floor was bathed in a harsh flourescent light. "She's upstairs in one of the suites."

Dean ducked his head self-consciously as they went up the crowded stairwell; a little too many cops for his liking. "Man, you really got everyone working this thing."

Larry looked grim. "Tenth murder in row, I gotta at least feel like I'm getting somewhere."

"No leads?" Sam asked, brushing past a photographer.

"Nothing _normal_. I mean, hell, our suspect list is thirty-some long and I'm not sure it's any of 'em. I called you boys for a reason. Your Dad was one of the best men I ever met." With that, Larry ushered them into a luxurious suite on the second floor and pointed to the bed. "Emma Turner." He paused. "The head's over there, where we found it," he added, pointing to a chair by the bureau.

Dean was instantly grateful he had forgone the coffee and bagel. "Jesus." The body of Emma Turner was splayed on the curtained bed while her head perched almost serenely atop the chair, facing the door. The amount of blood was evident even through the dark red of the carpet and sheets.

"What happened to her body?" Sam asked shakily, half-afraid to hear any kind of explanation for the scene in front of him.

Larry crossed his arms. "Same as the other nine. Took out the heart."

Dean moved closer to the bed and forced himself to hide a wave of nausea. Study the evidence, find the clues. He scanned the area and the body, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Except, you know, the lack of a heart and a head, he thought. Whoever they were up against really knew how to up the yuck factor. He glanced up and froze. "Woah, I'm catching a serious Blair Witch vibe. Sam, check this out."

Sam warily followed his gaze to the top of the canopied bed. A headless porcelein doll sat tucked in between the corner of the bedpost and the curtains. "What the hell… Voo-doo? Larry, you ever find these with any of the other victims?"

Larry frowned. "No, can't say we've seen any dolls."

Dean reached up and gently took the doll from its hiding spot. The things always creeped him out, ever since that Chucky movie. At least this one didn't have eyes. "What do you think, Sam? Doesn't look like voo-doo material. More like… Girl Scouty material or somethin'."

"American Girl doll. Jess used to… She had a collection from when she was a kid." Sam saw her face for a moment, then pushed it back. Dean glanced at him and decided not to say anything more. "So what about the head?" He changed topics, pursuing the more grisly yet less painful one.

"Yeah, moths in the mouth or any freaky stuff?"

"What?"

"Nevermind." Dean bent down and found himself eye-to-eye with Emma Turner. She had been a real knockout, probably advertised all over those flyers around Vegas. Where was her family, did they know where their daughter was… "She got any relatives we could talk to?"

Larry shook his head. "She's a dead end. Ran what we could of the prints, but so far no one's turned up."

"What about the other girls?" Sam asked. "Anyone she was close with?"

"They've all made their statements; can't say she had a girlfriend or anything like that." He sighed and glanced at his watch. "Tell you what, they'll be down at the station till about six finishing paperwork, why don't you stop by and flash them badges." Larry nodded to Sam and Dean's fake yet deceptive FBI badges. "I've got a press conference in fifteen minutes and not enough bullshit prepped. You boys keep in touch with me, got it?"

Dean shook his hand and wished it could have been more reassuring. As soon as Larry was out of earshot he turned to Sam. "Man, this is some creepy shit."

"I've got a bad feeling about this one," Sam muttered.

"Oh really? Was it the decapitation or the gutting that clued you in, Sherlock?"

"I mean, _dolls_? It doesn't fit with the other nine victims, maybe we're dealing with a group of witches. Maybe it isn't even a witch."

"Nah, definitely a witch."

Dean picked up a necklace from the bureau, dangling it by a finger. "Hex charm." He picked up a bracelet and a set of discarded earrings. "Also hex charms." The six-sided ornate jewelry was made of plain silver and from a distance could have passed as a star. "Our gal Emma was trying to ward off one bad bitch."


	3. Turn Up The Night

"God, it's like the circus," Dean muttered, surveying the local police station's impressive collection of pimps and small-time mobsters. A man in a hideous Hawaiian shirt sat sullenly in handcuffs while his arresting officer spoke with a woman wearing little more than a gold bikini. A drunk dozed forgotten against the wall.

"Dean, over there." Sam noticed a tight group of women pressed around the only phone. One of them was wearing a Heavenly Angels tiny top.

"Rick, I am _not_ standing down here with my girls the rest of this goddamn day," the one on the phone was saying. "…Oh yeah? You _better_ mean that or I'm taking my business down the street."

Dean moved in smoothly as she hung up. "Ladies, ladies… Heavenly Angels, am I right?" He flashed a kilowatt smile but was met with darts. This might be more difficult than he had thought.

"_Excuse_ me?" The blonde raised a perfectly tweezed eyebrow.

Sam stepped in front and flashed the FBI badge, creating a general nervousness. "Agent Walsh. This is my partner, Agent Steinhardt." He had wanted to go with something more Black Sabbath, but Dean was still reveling in finding his old Kansas tapes. "We're just following up on the death of Emma Turner, if you could give us a few minutes?"

The blonde scoffed. "We already _gave_ statements. Nothing more to say."

"What about this?" Dean pulled out the doll, closely watching their faces. "Look familiar?"

An older girl frowned and carefully took the headless porcelain figure. "It's China Doll. Emma kept it under her bed," she explained. "Her sister gave it to her for Christmas. The head's gone…" She trailed off and paled at the eerie similarity.

Sam glanced at Dean. "You know her family, then."

She shook her head, handing the doll back. "Just what Em told me a while ago." She crossed her arms. "How would they know about China Doll?"

The blonde sighed. "Could have had it sitting on the bed or something, Mad." She turned to Sam and Dean. "You two done scaring my girls? Agent Walsh?"

Sam had the needling suspicion that there was something more, but without any solid evidence he wasn't willing to press the issue. Dean was of a different opinion and interrupted Sam's apology before it even formed. "Actually, just one more question. Emma ever wear these often?" He held up the hex charm earrings.

The girls nodded cautiously. "Yeah, all the time. One of her faves. She said it was for good luck, you know, with the customers."

"Uh huh," Dean murmered, pocketing the charms. Also good luck for warding off evil meanies. Which, he guessed, could be the customers. Too bad they didn't keep running records of visitors. "Thanks for your time, ladies," he called after the blonde and her posse. To his surprise, he felt a hand slip into his pocket, the older girl glancing back at him quickly. He took out the calling card, an address and time hastily scribbled, and grinned at Sam. "Dude, she totally wants me. Dinner tonight."

"Or maybe she knows something else about Emma," Sam mused with a frown.

He considered this. "…Nah. C'mon, lunch. And let's see if any witches have a doll fetish."

Half an hour later, Sam eyed a limp fry over the diner table. He had eaten at worse places, but after this morning he doubted his stomach was going to thank him. The image of Emma's body was still fresh in his mind. He ignored the stale taste of the fry and scrolled down a website on his laptop. "All I'm getting is voo-doo. It sure didn't look like it though."

Dean nursed a coffee thoughtfully. "Keep looking. I mean, what, the thing just appears out of friggin' nowhere? Maybe your website sucks. Try _Witches and Evil Bitches_ dot com."

"Checked it. Nothing. It's not like we're looking for any modern-day witchcraft, Dean. This is beyond the eighteenth century, at least. Totally unrelated to the Wiccans--"

"Yeah, yeah, no nature-loving here," Dean interrupted before Sam could get started on a lecture. "Okay… So, what? We sit on our thumbs until the next victim pops up?"

"Unless your dinner date has any leads." Sam closed the laptop and pushed back the remaining fries. His coffee had gathered a greasy layer. He hated meeting a dead end; they were wasting time.

So much for things being easy. Dean was itching to hit up the casinos, maybe get a drink and hit up a hot bartender. Instead he double-checked the address on the calling card and compared it to the club in front of him. Unfortunately they matched; a bright neon sign advertised the night's specials in women and liquor. Feeling a little sleazy, he ducked inside and quickly navigated to a small table by the crowded bar. A thumping bass line seemed intent on causing a headache. He glanced over the sticky table menu, tinkered with his watch, tapped a toe. Caught a whiff of perfume.

"You're early. I'm off in ten."

Dean turned and saw the girl from the police station in a short waitress dress. She swung back towards the bar with a collection of emptied glasses.

"Right. Okay." He leaned back with a sigh and took in his surroundings. An overdressed blonde was giving him the look from a table across the room… definitely no, he decided.

A group of college roadtrippers took down a round of shots and Dean wished for a minute that he could just drop the case and join them. Yeah, right. You're five years past that. That could've been Sam, vacation from Stanford maybe. He watched them as they took our their wallets, pulling out bills for later entertainment no doubt. Ok, maybe not so much Sam. He masked a smile. Still… He wanted to convince himself that this was some kind of… vacation? Vegas was supposed to be fun, right? He could vaguely remember a trip to the beach when Mom was still alive. So what, this place was supposed to be like the beach? Dean realized he wasn't even sure what a vacation felt like.

A bottle clinked in front of him as the girl set down two Millers. She scooted the ashtray over with a finger and tapped out a cigarette. "Thanks for meeting me, Agent…?"

"Call me Dean," he smiled shortly. Okay, she was gorgeous. Like the lovechild of Angelina and Britney, or something like that. He nodded towards the cigarette. "Those'll kill you."

She shrugged. "Better way than what happened to Em… Madison," she introduced, holding out a hand.

"Like Wisconsin, right." Dean winced inwardly; did he really just say that? The woman has to put up with cheesy pickup lines for a living and here he was, cracking puns. He cleared his throat and tried to look like he wasn't distracted. But she was wearing a plunging neckline.

"So, if you don't mind my asking, do you have any leads on the case? I mean, I know you're not supposed to talk about it… but I'm scared. A lot of the girls are scared."

Dean was surprised by her raw honesty and found himself wishing he could help more. "I know, and Agent Walsh and I are--" He stopped, noticing her tattoo. "Nice tat."

She brushed aside a lock of hair from her shoulder, baring the hex symbol. "This? Oh it's … This is going to sound stupid, but a bunch of us got these a few weeks ago for good luck. Like Em."

He sensed she was holding back, her eyes darting a little nervously. Dean took a sip of his beer. "Do you know what that symbol is?"

"It's um, ha, well it's supposedly this 'ward off witches' thing, I don't really get it." She smiled disarmingly.

Dean wasn't falling for it. This was more Sam's specialty, and he tried to think of how his brother might handle it. "Madison, if there's something… strange… that you think might be going on, we need to know about it. No matter how weird or crazy it sounds. Believe me, I've heard everything."

She frowned, flicking off a few ashes. "What are you guys, like from the X-Files or something?"

"I like to think I'm better looking than David Duchovny. But yeah, something like that, if it helps."

She paused, then snubbed out the cigarette and sat hunched over the small table. "It's just that, with all the murders and everything, there's been some crazy rumors. A couple people think it's a witch. Like, spells and shit."

"Who's a couple people?" Dean wondered if any other hunters had picked up on the case.

"Mostly Madame L'oeil's circle; she's a psychic reader who works at the Blue Moon Club."

"Where Kit Patton was murdered." She had been the third victim, two weeks ago.

Madison looked grim. "L'oeil was real scared afterwards. She put up a bunch of these charms, told as many girls as she could to get their hands on them."

"Why'd you believe her?"

"Look, she may be in a hack business, but she's the real deal. Anyone who knows her can tell you that. Anyway, I got the tattoo with a few of the girls." She bit her lip and studied the table. "I, um… I like to pretend I don't believe in that kind of thing. But I mean, shit, I'm ready to grasp at straws if it means I'm not the next heart missing."

Dean mustered up his most reassuring smile. "We're doing everything we can." Jesus, and the bad lines just kept coming.

"Yeah," she said half-heartedly. "Well… You wanna get going or you wanna stick around for Roxy's show?"

"Spelled with three x's?"

"Just one."

"I'll head out."

Dean let her lead him through the rowdy crowd; she had a curvy grace that let her slide past drunken customers and pools of spilled beer. The outside air hit him like a slap in the face, a welcome relief from the humid bar. Madison shifted the purse on her shoulder and glanced toward the steady flow of nearby traffic. Dean stopped her before she could hail a taxi. "My car's parked out back. You did buy me a beer," he reasoned.

She smiled, shrugged, and followed him down the small alley towards the back lot. The click of her heels echoed up against the brick walls. "I thought all you federal agents were supposed to be assholes."

"Nah, I'm reformed." He headed for the Impala, bathed in neon yellow light from the back bar windows. He felt a twinge of pride; his baby was beautiful tonight.

Madison's eyes widened. "Nice car."

"It's even better when you're--" Dean stopped, throwing out a hand to grab Madison. There was a shadow by the dumpsters on the far side of the lot. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. This wasn't some homeless drunk. "Get in the car."

"Dean, what the hell!" Madison cried as he shoved her into the passenger and grabbed his gun from the glovebox. Not that it would do a whole lot of good against a freaky spell.

He advanced across the parking lot, steadying the gun with two hands. The shadow shimmered against the dumpster like a mirage and he felt the air grow colder. Before he could get much closer it simply vanished, a powerful push leaving him on top of a pile of garbage bags and cardboard boxes. "Damn it," he swore under his breath. "I friggin hate witches."


	4. Don't Fear the Reaper

Sam rubbed his eyes as he heard Dean pull up outside the motel. The bright glow of the laptop screen was causing his head to ache and he had barely made any progress since lunch. "Tell me you have a lead," he groaned as the door opened.

"_This_ is where you've been working the case?"

Sam sprung up and saw Madison, who was pulling a face at the empty cheeseburger wrappers and dirty socks on the floor. "Uh… Hi. Dean brought you… here?" He glared at Dean as he entered. Oh there would be hell for this. Tens of other motels and he has to come back here.

"We got a creeper," Dean explained, peering out the windows before shutting the curtains.

"What, the witch? It found you?"

"I dunno man, all I got was a good look at a shadow before being thrown into a pile of garbage. It was just… watching us. Waiting, who knows."

Madison looked from one to the other. "Does this mean I'm next?"

"No," they both replied. Dean sat down on his bed, which obediently creaked. "But you're staying with us for now. Just in case."

"Dean, you can't just keep her here," Sam said incredulously. The last thing he wanted to do was keep tabs on a hooker that Dean had managed to pick up.

"You two aren't really FBI." It was more of a statement than a question, as Madison folded her arms. She was studying their wall of newspaper clips, photos and maps. "These are all about the previous murders."

Sam sighed. "You're right. We're not FBI. It was a mistake to bring you here; you're safer at the lounge with your friends."

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Dean pulled Sam aside into the smallish bathroom. "Are you crazy? I'm not sending her back there to hang out and get killed, right after I saw that… _thing_ tonight!"

"If she stays here we're just dragging her into more trouble, Dean!"

"Look, just trust me on this, okay? I wanna play it safe and not contribute to the body count—she stays, at least until we can get our hands on this bitch."

"Tell me you're not doing this because she's hot."

Dean rolled his eyes and went back out into the bedroom. Madison was looking at a photo of the first victim that she had taken from the wall. Dean realized that all their articles probably weren't the best things for her to be looking at. She showed him the picture. "She was my next-door neighbor. That's her boyfriend, Mark. They were dating probably two weeks before she died." She took a deep breath. "I want to help."

Sam felt his stomach sink. "Madison, right? … I know you must've been close to some of the girls, but we can't ask you to risk your life."

"You don't need to ask me, I've already made up my mind. You think I've never risked my life, living in Vegas for six years?" She set down her purse and perched on the edge of the bed. "And if you don't let me into this operation, I'll spill that you're not FBI. I happen to know a couple guys in the local government."

Okay that was unexpected. Sam could practically feel Dean smirking at him. Count on him to bring home the stubborn girl. Dean pulled up a chair and leaned over the back. "Sounds like a deal to me."

She peeked at Dean, hiding a grateful smile. "So … If you're not federal agents, who _are_ you?"

"Brothers. This is Sam. We, uh, hunt." He wasn't quite sure how to put it without sounding like a huge nerd or a massive psychopath. He watched her scan the wall, putting two and two together.

"You've been hunting the… witch. Haven't gotten very far. It is a witch, isn't it?"

Sam glanced at Dean. The girl was taking all this pretty well. "We think so."

"How do you kill it?"

Dean frowned. "We're working on it. It's different for every kind, but mostly involving fire. The thing is, we know jack squat about what we're up against, other than what the end result is: no head and no heart." It was strange sharing a case with a girl that wasn't a hunter. It kind of felt good, he thought slowly.

"Madame L'oeil; I know she'd help you," Madison suggested. "She's a psychic reader," she explained to Sam.

"Seriously?"

"She's the best. If anyone can give you some tips, it's her. I can take you there tomorrow, if that's okay?" she suggested carefully, aware that she was treading on their ground now.

Sam threw up his hands. "Might as well," he finally conceded, closing the laptop in defeat. It was the best thing they had going for them right now. There was an awkward pause and he realized that if Madison was staying, they would need a place for her to sleep. God, he knew this was going to happen in Vegas; at least Dean was sober and the stripper was nice enough.

"You can have my bed, I'll take the floor tonight," Dean offered, sparing Sam a night with the roaches.

She combed a hand through her hair. "Really, it's okay. We can just share. I promise I won't steal the sheets," she teased, trying to break the tension.

Sam cleared his throat, a little jealous, and announced that he was going to take a shower. Dean resisted the urge to do a triumphant fist-pump. Now don't screw this up, he reminded himself. "So, uh, you're not gonna charge me for this, right?" Oh God, maybe he should just shutup.

"Strictly off-hours," she retorted, sliding under the sheets. The bed groaned under Dean's added weight. She noticed him slip the hunting knife under the pillow. "You need that often?"

He paused, suddenly confronted with explaining a common habit. "It comes in handy sometimes." Like when jumping up sweating from a rare nightmare. No use in scaring her already. "How do you sleep?" he heard her asked quietly. He turned over, setting the alarm clock. "I don't snore," he answered.

* * *

The room was silent, a sliver of morning light coming in from under the door and between the curtains. The alarm clock hesitated on the brink between 8:59 and 9:00 before flicking all three digits and blasting Hendrix from the local classic rock station. Dean slammed down the off button and rolled over … into another body. He opened his eyes and saw a black bra strap on tanned bare skin. Oh shit, who the— Wait a minute. He closed his eyes again in relief and started thinking of how he might be able to rub this in Sam's face for at least the next few weeks. He heard his brother creak out of bed and then the soft click of the bathroom light.

Sam stared into the mirror, allowing way more time than usual to brush every single tooth in his mouth until Dean shuffled in. Dean's reflection was fighting back a grin. Sam spit into the sink, scowling. "Well aren't you just a pile of smiles."

"Glad to see you already rammed that stick up your ass."

"Sleep well?"

"Like a baby." Dean smeared on a gob of toothpaste.

"You're gonna regret bringing her into this," Sam warned, shoving a finger in Dean's face. He pushed it aside.

"Oh c'mon, Sam," he garbled through the toothbrush. "What are you, like the righteous priest of this trip or somethin'?"

Sam fumed privately, knowing that this morning was setting a bad mood for the rest of the day. The lady was basically blackmailing them into letting her tag along and Dean was off sharing the sheets with her. God damn it.

* * *

Madame L'oeil paused the soap she had been watching and gestured the two Winchester boys onto the plush sofa. A huge python that couldn't possibly be legal was curled around the edge of the room, neatly avoiding several racks of scented candles. The psychic was almost as thin as the snake and darwfed by a volcano of red curls. Sam noticed a string of hex charms hung around the room like Christmas lights and chose to ignore the incredulous smirk Dean was sliding him. "Have some tea, loves," she ordered, pressing a hot mug into Dean's hands. "Well, you're going to ask about the murders?"

"Those are uh, some nice hex charms you've got hanging up there," Sam commented mildly.

She nodded seriously and took a seat next to Madison. "They're to ward off the witch… but you saw what happened to Emma—the evil came through. Clean busted down the fence." She shook her head and raised a hand in dramatic testimony. "I know it's a witch, I feel it in my bones."

"Yeah, and my toe always hurts when it's about to rain," Dean interrupted. "It doesn't make any sense; hell, this could be a run-of-the-mill human serial killer. We got some nonsense symbols from the first victim and nothin' after that."

The psychic narrowed her eyes. "The heart is necessary for a ritual, a sacrifice."

"Sounds like Valentine's Day," he muttered.

Sam frowned. They had already considered that angle. "All the victims were young girls, but they don't fit the virgin standard."

L'oeil shrugged and finished her tea, picking up a lizard from a nearby cushion. "Not all witches are picky and traditional. The girl may simply have childish innocence at heart: Emma's China Doll."

Sam glanced at Dean, who was grimacing at the tea. "It's a stretch."

Dean rolled his eyes. "So can't you just, I dunno, tell us who it is? I mean, you _are_ a psychic; can't you seek out an aura or something?"

She waved a hand dismissively. "It's all negative energy, very nonspecific. But …" She paused. "It would be best to start at the morgues."

"You seem to know a lot of details," Sam implied, setting aside the tea.

L'oeil scoffed. "Don't push it, love. I know my _Malleous_; it comes with the territory. Not many sprawling graveyards in Vegas--"

"So the witch would go to the next best place with dead people," Dean finished. "Nothing like the general hospital for a nice commune with the devil."

Madison shifted nervously. "You don't really mean like…"

Dean shrugged. "Evil spirit, probably a demon. Summoning would work better with all the dead bodies."

"There's precautions we can take," Sam rushed to reassure her. "We've sortof dealt with this kind of thing before." He didn't really believe that, but it sounded nice. L'oeil raised an eyebrow as if to call him out on the fib, then took the empty teacup from Dean's hands. She glanced in, pausing.

She carefully set the cup back down on a Tarot coaster and rose from the couch. "Fortune does not favor you… but she's been wrong." She glanced at her watch. "I have a client at two, so I'm afraid I'll have to boot you all out. Maddie, I made a few cookies for the girls if you want to grab them from the kitchen?"

Sam meandered towards the door, giving the room a final sweep for anything that may be out of place. Then again the décor wasn't all that normal to begin with. Dean scribbled his cell number on a gas reciept. "Give us a call if you get any more, uh, premonitions. We'll be in touch."

"Pleasure meeting you, loves," she smiled. "Maddie dear, did you find them alright?" She headed into the kitchen.

"Yeah, thanks so much--"

"Don't go with them," L'oeil whispered urgently.

"What?"

"The tea leaves were all death; clear as day."

* * *

Sam frowned, recreasing the Vegas map in all the wrong spots. The casinos were more clearly marked than the hospitals. Dean gave him a withering look from behind the wheel. "Dude. I folded that _neatly_."

"It was crumpled in the glove compartment."

"You're gonna rip it."

There was loud rustling for a minute as Sam finally mashed the map into some semblence of a square. "Okay. There's only two in the surrounding area where we marked the murders. We got… Our Lady of Grace and Mercy General."

"Check out Mercy first, it sounds bigger. Hey, you okay back there?" Dean glanced at Madison in the rearview. She snapped away from the window.

"Sorry. Guess I'm a little creeped out hearing all that stuff for real. It's … hard to believe."

Dean snorted. "What's hard to believe is the living room we just sat in; was anyone else thinking Whoopi Goldberg? … Oh come on, _Ghost_?"

Sam tried to resist a smile and turned back to Madison. "You sure you want to come with us? Like I said, it's a risk."

She bit her lip but only thought for a moment. "Yeah, I know. And you can't get rid of me that easy, Sam," she joked wryly.

"Yeah Sammy, leave the girl alone," Dean joined in, amused. "Aw sweet, Journey!" he exclaimed and turned up the radio.


	5. Witch Hunt

Dean stood by the bed, his duffel open before him and an assortment of weapons spread out. It was nearing eleven and he hoped to be scouring the morgues by midnight, prime witching hour. "Holy water. Hurts like hell on a beastie or anyone possessed. Pure salt. Keeps demons at bay; worst case scenario you circle yourself in with this."

Madison nodded, then pointed to a gun. "You had this the other night. What is it?"

"Sawed-off packed with rock salt. Works for just about anything, temporarily. Mostly it buys you time." He was enjoying the brief lesson; hell, he almost felt like his dad. No—don't go down that road.

Sam tossed him a small necklace from the other side of the room. "You're gonna need this too." It had a faint scent of sulfur and Madison wrinkled her nose.

"To ward off possession," Dean explained.

"Don't you need this?"

He pulled up his shirt to reveal a small intricate tattoo. She was probably noticing all the scars he thought, self-conscious for the first time in a long time. "Little bit of permanent protection. Learned that the hard way."

"Must've learned a lot of things that way," she said quietly, glancing back down at the weapons.

He cleared his throat and picked up the transmitter. Not gonna be sharing sob stories. "And this handy little thing's gonna tell us where the big bad is hiding. Made it myself, actually."

"Which is why they break so often," Sam chimed in. "You got the lighter fluid?"

"Packed it. Time to dress up. What are we looking at tonight… you wanna go with cops again?" He flipped through the various IDs in his wallet, noticing a few credit cards he had forgotten. The cards weren't something he felt guilty about anymore; it was necessity.

"What's she supposed to wear?"

Dean thought for a minute, then smiled. "Prop."

Mercy General was indeed the larger hospital in the area, and several buildings sprawled out around three blocks. Despite the late hour it was well-lit and busy. Dean parked the Impala across the street and observed the hospital main entrance, currently populated by a small collection of bandaged or wheelchair-bound citizens. An ambulance was pulling in to the ER further down. He hated hospitals; they only held bad memories. Things like Dad dying.

"Dean," Sam said again. "You ready?" He knew what his brother must be thinking and now wasn't the time to get a phobia in your system.

"Yeah. Let's go."

The receptionist hardly looked excited to see them and reluctantly set down a stack of medical files, glaring over a pair of thick-rimmed bifocals. "Can I help you."

Dean flashed his badge. "Just looking for the morgue. Need an ID on a body." He tilted his head towards Madison. The receptionist glanced from one to the other and then returned to the files.

"Elevator to basement level two, Earl's down there till one."

"Earl! Great." Dean smiled his cheesiest smile. "That was easy," he muttered to Sam.

They had been to their share of morgues before and it never got any less creepy. The sterility, the organization … it didn't seem to mesh with the violent deaths. There was a certain level of immunity required to prod and poke a stranger's corpse. And a certain amount of money required to gain access past the attendant on duty. Except maybe this time. Dean stopped short at the check-in desk. "Looks like Earl snuck off before one."

Sam glanced at the security camera in the corner, waving his fake badge. "Pretend like you're signing in anyway. They have cameras."

"Looks like someone's gonna get fired." Dean flipped the guest book around and noticed the last visitor had been over three hours ago. Slow night, no wonder Earl took a long break. Name: Officer Wayne Gretsky. Reaching over further he buzzed the door lock open.

Sam handed Madison a jar of vaseline. "Put this under your nose, it blocks out the smell."

The morgue was brightly lit in the autopsy room, fluorescent lights making a low buzzing noise like bored flies. Sam was relieved to see the tables were all empty and cleaned. He peered down the dim corridor that led to storage and viewing. "You getting anything on that?" he asked Dean, who was slowly passing the transmitter over the room.

"Nada. Zip."

Madison watched over his shoulder. "What's it supposed to sound like?"

The transmitter gave a sudden static squeal as the light flickered. Dean frowned. "Like that. Looks like we got company after all." He opened his briefcase and hauled out the shotgun, tossing a flashlight to Sam. "Stay close."

The hallway was cool and drafty, the transmitter emitting sporadic squeals. Dean motioned Sam and Madison on as he turned into the first room. A few extra exam tables had been rolled into the corner next to the cabinets. The room was mostly bare, save for medical supplies on the shelves. Boring, he thought, scouring the area with his flashlight. The transmitter was silent. He crept back out of the room and across the hall to the next one. Sam's flashlight beam was visible from the corridor.

And this was … the viewing room, he realized with a frown. The body on the table was covered with sheets. After giving the place a quick once-over, he moved closer to the body, checking the transmitter. Nothing. "So who left you sitting out," he muttered, checking the toe tag out of curiosity. WINCHESTER.

He stepped back quickly, leveling the gun at the body and trying not to recognize the fear in his stomach. The body didn't move. Of course, it was dead. C'mon, you know how many people are named Winchester? Yeah that wasn't helping. It was just a little unnerving seeing your name on a toe tag. At least they had burned Dad's body. It couldn't be him.

But he wanted to look anyway, see what asshole had the nerve to try to scare him. Pull down the sheet. Just do it. It's a fucking sheet, nothing supernatural. His hand was steady.

The sheet pulled away to reveal … a woman. Dean breathed a sigh of relief. Wasn't Mom either. Just a random lady from Las Vegas with the same last name. Then he paused. The pale face had a fresh coat of lipstick. "What the hell?"

He saw his mistake as soon as her black eyes opened. The transmitter screamed too late.

"SAM!" Dean fired the shotgun but she was agile and grabbed him around the neck, forcing him into a hard kiss. It tasted like sugar, he thought for a split second. He wrenched free as Sam and Madison ran in.

"Dean!" Sam fired an explosion of salt that drowned out Madison's scream and the woman vanished into a fine mist, expressionless at her temporary demise. They stood there frozen for a few minutes, straining to hear or see anything, but she was gone.

"Okay what just happened?" Madison asked shakily.

Dean spit, wiping his mouth of the sugary taste. "I just got the kiss of death, man."

Sam lowered his shotgun. "The witch _kissed_ you? _Why?_"

"Maybe she wanted some living action," Dean muttered, angry with himself. His lips still tingled. Could you spell "trap" any clearer? You walked right into it and lost the witch. Nice.

Madison shone her flashlight upwards. "Wait, look at the ceiling."

One of the tiles was misplaced, shifted over a little too far. Sam frowned and nudged the tile with the shotgun. "There's a box." He reached up on his toes and brought down the small plain shoebox, taking stock of its contents. "Yeah, looks like someone's summoning prep kit." He pulled out a few herbs but they crumbled in his hand. "And it hasn't been used in a while."

Dean wasn't buying it. "So what, the chick hasn't been summoning down here? She's just hangin' out?"

"Or the demon doesn't need to be called in anymore. Could be possession of the witch."

Dean slammed the wall in frustration. "I got macked by a _demon_?"

"Ew," Madison whispered.

"Dean, think about it; it would explain why the hex signs didn't work for Emma." Sam combed a hand through his hair. He hoped they hadn't bit off more than they could chew with this one. Maybe they should call in Bobby. "Oh… woah." Sam held up the lid of the box.

It was a mosiac of photos, all with the same smiling man. In a tux, lifting champagne, kissing a figure that had since been cut out. At the beach in sunglasses. Smiling from a bed, motioning towards the camera. In a restaurant, leaning towards another figure that had also been cut out.

"I think we finally found a lead."


	6. Double Time on the Seduction Line

_Apologies for the delay; I've been having a love/hate with this one, mostly because I personally dislike Mary Sues but my characters tend to take off and write themselves in spite of me. ;]_

_Cheers!  
Anna_

* * *

Dean flung the photos down on the motel table, threw off his jacket, and grabbed his toothbrush. "Man, there is not enough Colgate to get that taste outta my mouth," he muttered. It had turned into the foul aftertaste of a bad shot of liquor.

"So you wanna head down to the station and get Larry to check this guy out?" Sam called. "…Dean?"

He spit into the sink and final felt better. "What, _now?_ Dude it's like rush hour there. Save it for the morning." He went back to the table and reexamined the photos for the third time. "You know what this is? This is an angry woman. Cuttin' up photos and shit."

Madison cleared her throat. "Um, mind if I get a shower? If you're done with the bathroom." She glanced from Sam to Dean, whose eyes had lit up like Christmas.

"All yours," Dean replied quickly before Sam could get in a word.

"Thanks…" She flicked a polite smile and Dean was a little disappointed when he heard her lock the bathroom door. Well that wasn't happening tonight then. You know, he thought, she's not bad at all. Hell, she was great in a "fuck me please" way, but she was a hooker and that was practically part of the package.

"Earth to Dean," Sam was saying. "I know it's a lot to ask but can you _stop_ thinking about her naked and _please _focus on this case?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Dean sighed and pulled up a chair. "Okay. I'm doin' work. So what do we know: witch possessed by a demon, and a cache of butchered photos with a special someone. Demon must be doing the dirty work, but I'm out of ideas for a motive."

Sam thought for a moment. "Well, jealousy, revenge …"

"So she summons a demon to get revenge on this guy? Then why kill all the girls?"

"Demon needs sacrifices, maybe the original plan gets a little out of hand."

"I dunno, man, I feel like we're grasping at some pretty thin straws here. And why the hell did she have to _kiss_ me?"

"Could be a spell. How do you feel?" Sam peered at him.

Dean scowled. "I'm fine, Sam. What, should I be puking blood or something?"

"Nah, too hard to get out of the carpet."

"Right."

"So what's the deal with her? You planning on keeping her around indefinitely?"

Dean shrugged and glanced toward the bathroom. "Till it's safe for her to go home. What, you don't like the candy?"

Sam waved it off. "Look, I'm not complaining. Just don't get her hopes up, is all. You sortof have a heartbreaker rep."

He grinned. "Hey, what can I say, the ladies love me."

"Yeah ok, Hasselhoff. You want anything from the gas station?"

Dean raised a finger. "Only if they have those little Tastycake apple pies." Sam rolled his eyes and headed back out.

Dean tapped out a rhythm on the table and frowned at the tuxedoed champagne toaster. The guy looked harmless enough. Probably thought he had a normal life with a nice wife and everything. Think again there, pal. Might wanna take back that toast. He looked once more towards the bathroom as the shower shut off. Shit, they hadn't given her a towel, he realized. He grabbed a used one from the bed, sniffed it with a wrinkled nose and decided it was probably adequate.

He hovered by the door with the towel, not sure exactly what he was waiting for. Suddenly the door was gone and Madison was there—with a towel—looking startled. "Oh, uh. It's not what it looks like."

She smiled and raised an eyebrow. "So you're not trying to offer me that thing?"

"Oh, well yeah but, I see you've got it covered." Dean wished he would make at least one, just one, coherent sentence. Instead he found his eyes magnetized to the cleavage that disappeared unfairly beneath fuzzy white cotton.

"Your brother take off for the station?" She picked her clothes from the hanger and dropped the towel. Dean stood there feeling like an idiot as she pulled her pants and shirt on without so much as a blink of modesty. She turned to ask again and Dean found himself suddenly very much in the midst of getting the pants and shirt back off, silently thanking God or whoever.

"Nah, just down the block," he breathed into her hair, moving a hand down her smooth stomach. God, he couldn't remember the last time he was this hard for someone; it actually hurt. He pushed against her and drove her up against the wall. She kissed him so forcefully that their teeth hit and all he could think about was how fast he could get his zipper down. In a bizarre moment of clarity he wondered if this whole thing was ethical, but since when had he given two shits about morality in bed. She let out a short breathless gasp as the mattress knocked her lungs and there was a mutual sense of urgency. He fumbled desperately for a minute and then groaned with relief against her neck at the sensation of tight warmth; this was definitely, _definitely_ awesome, like, maybe best sex of his life awesome. And there had been a lot of sex in his lifetime. He pulled back to try and make it last, settle into a slower rhythm, but god she had her eyes half-closed like a cat or something, softly biting back her lower lip. He ran a hand along her cheek with strange tenderness, feeling something different move in his chest for the briefest second. Then all decency went out the window and Dean stopped thinking as she clenched a fist in his hair and arched.

"Jesus," he finally uttered into the bedspread, panting and tasting the sweat of their effort. He felt the heave of her breasts under his chest and thought he might actually go again right then. Instead he raised himself up on elbows and looked at her, his charm necklace hanging down to tickle bare skin. She met his eyes for just a moment. "Well, uh …" He breathed out a laugh as she quirked her lips into a smile.

"Don't wanna get caught with your pants down when your brother gets back."

Dean rolled over and idly ran a hand over his abdomen, thinking he might have strained some muscle down there. He watched her get up and walk to where he had tossed her clothes. Just the way a strand of hair fell that particular way against her shoulder. He rubbed a hand over his face suddenly; what the fuck was he thinking? Snap out of it, cut the crap. She was a whore, she was supposed to make men feel this way for a living. Weird, whatever, he dismissed everything summarily and got up.

He was pulling on a tee-shirt and Madison was already asleep when Sam came back. He watched his eyes slide from him to Madison and there might as well have been block-lettered subtitles.

"They didn't have any pies," he said, setting down the keys.

"What the hell kind of gas station did you visit?" Dean muttered.

Sam sighed and gestured to Madison. "Dude, I'm not gonna stay here if I have to listen to you two get it on all night."

"Aw, I thought you liked that, Sammy."

"Dean."

"Relax, I'm not gonna make you part of some midnight orgy. Man needs his sleep anyway. So … sweet dreams?" Dean handled the warning look and switched off the lamp abruptly.

One hour later and Dean was staring at the ceiling. He could go do it in the bathroom but then it would be obvious and awkward and he'd be admitting that he needed to in the first place. So he was laying there in agony, one hand under the pillow tracing the handle of his hunting knife. Madison shifted in her sleep and he could feel her body heat like a magnetic force. After another hour he gave up and wrapped an arm around her, pressing himself against her back. She was just … he couldn't describe it. Right. And it wasn't sitting well with him. After all, he was Dean Winchester, King of the One Night Stands, and he'd been pretty comfortable on his throne for a while now. Long-term relationships were out of the question and yet this girl was getting under his skin. Jesus, he was even _cuddling_. Since when did _that_ happen? With a prostitute, no less. You're a regular Richard Gere. Or Nick Cage, minus the suitcase of booze. Well so what if that was her job, he thought. You're not much better yourself, plowing a trail of women back and forth across Route 66. He realized he had been stroking her hair and consciously stopped. No need to get creepy. Dean finally felt the edges of sleep coming up, and he could have sworn for a minute that he tasted that damn witch again.


	7. On Dangerous Ground

"Dean … Dean!"

"Mmmf? What!" He jerked awake crankily, finding Sam standing in front of the bed. The space beside him was empty. Dude, she totally used me, he thought in a sleepy daze. That's kinda hot. "Where'd she go?"

Sam held up the motel notepad. "Had to run to work. Catch up with you tonight." He tossed it to Dean. "She left you her number too."

"She went _back_ to Heavenly Angels?" Dean frowned.

Sam considered pointing out that Madison most likely had a manager that was none too pleased right now, but settled for letting the subject drop. There was no point in getting Dean on the defensive. "So, check out what I found in this picture."

Way to change the subject, Sam. Dean took the champagne photo and saw that he had circled a sign in the background. It was out of focus but … "The Cobra Club?"

"Exactly. I checked it out online, it's an exclusive place downtown that specializes in receptions and engagement parties."

"So let's see if anyone recognizes John Doe." Anything that would take his mind off what Madison was probably doing right now. With a stranger. At least Sam wasn't giving him a sympathy look.

Twenty minutes later and the owner of the glitzy Cobra Club was peering a little too hard at their FBI badges. Sam quickly snapped the wallet shut and assured the man, for the second time, that "No, I never knew your Uncle Vinny."

"But we were wondering if you knew _this_ man," Dean interjected before things got sticky.

The owner smiled as Dean handed over the tuxedo photo. "Oh yeah! That kid. Sure I know him, came in here uhhhh lemme think, about middle of last month. Did an engagement gig."

"Do you remember his name?" Sam got out a pen and prayed for a lead.

"Oh yeah. Rob Nelson. I did about fifty customized invitations with his name on it, pain in my ass, but he paid alright and was pretty damn courteous too. What's he in trouble or somethin'?"

"We can't comment on that. Who was his fiancé?"

"I think her name was Selina Richard? Or Pritchard?"

"Did you notice anything … uh, unusual about their relationship at all?"

He thought for moment, then shrugged. "Normal as anyone else that comes through here. Hey, I don't want to land anyone in jail here, it's bad for business. Can you just quote me on all this as some kind of anonymous tip?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks for your time." Dean rolled his eyes as they left, the Impala parked comfortably between two Mercedes-Benz in the valet spots. The sun was glaring and traffic was at a standstill. He noticed that the rearview mirror needed cleaning. "You sure you didn't know Uncle Vinny?" he couldn't help asking.

"Buried him under the barn out back, in cement," Sam deadpanned.

Dean grinned. "Yeah, I bet."

* * *

Dean peered at the laptop screen, flicking through the various engagement articles in the Las Vegas Sun. A piece of tomato from his sub drooped precariously close to the keyboard. "Dude here's one between a midget and a lawyer."

Sam pushed aside the third box of police reports that Larry had sent them and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Trying to get through three weeks of reports in Vegas was the equivalent of reading the Manhattan phonebook. The library was utterly deserted and he was still amazed that one existed within twenty miles. "Rob Neslen was reported missing two weeks ago, by his fiancé."

"Which was … right about the time the murders started. So I'd say it's more like his corpse is missing." Dean clicked past a few more engagements, then suddenly caught himself staring at the imposter Winchester. His stomach flipped. "Woah, woah."

"What?" Sam craned over Dean's shoulder, noticing the announcement for Selina Pritchard.

"That's the chick that macked on me." He paused, then grinned. "Well, I guess I should be more specific, right? The undead one back at Mercy General." He quickly scanned the article. "Says here she's got a sister in Reno and parents in … Milwaukee."

"Dean … " Sam pointed further down.

_Jack Pritchard, brother and co-owner of Heavenly Angels Lounge, will generously host the bachelor celebration this weekend._

"Oh, fuck," he breathed. It was that weird feeling that was a combination of top-of-the-roller-coaster and diving into a cold pool, where his stomach would drop for a split second. As he pulled out his phone to call her it was already ringing and he thought for a moment that there had been some kind of bizarre cross-communication. He registered that the ID read Larry and hit the cell to speaker. "Yeah, what's up?"

"Got something different for you, nothing good. Girl over here at The W Bar got gifted a nice set of roses with a pig's heart thrown in. Figured you might want to check it out."

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "Great, yeah. Er, no, not great. Sam'll be there. See you in ten."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not letting you go to the Lounge alone." Vegas was dangerous enough without any supernatural mojo, and the last thing he wanted was a mob hit on Dean. "This Jack Pritchard guy could be in on the murders."

"Shocking."

"So … What, you're not a little concerned that this guy could have murdered ten girls?"

"Sam, I got it. I'll be fine." Dean put on his serious face and sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to confront a modern-day Ted Bundy. "I just need to get in there and make sure she's okay. Let's go, I'll drop you off at The W." Case closed, decision made.

After dealing with gridlocked traffic and a pompous valet attendant, Dean finally gunned the Impala towards Heavenly Angels, practically feeling Sam's cloud of disgruntledness in the empty passenger seat. It's like that old cliché in horror flicks, he thought. Splitting up means someone's gonna get killed or maimed or at the very least left fighting for their life. Thing was, that only happened in the movies. He'd been hunting things a lot worse than vengeful witches without Dad or Sam for years. And he was personally planning on making short order of Jack Pritchard. That in mind, he pealed into a parking space behind the lounge, told the valet to go fuck himself—could no one park their own cars here?—and picked up a few choice items from the trunk.

A slim hostess in a garter and wings greeted him inside, the hulking bouncer from "security" giving him a once-over. Apparently the night-life wasn't exclusive to the night; the lounge was packed for a show in the next room. "Welcome to the premier gentlemen's club--"

"I'm looking for Madison."

She was a little miffed at the interruption and opened up a register book. "I'm sorry, are you a preferred client?"

God, it was like trying to get an insurance quote or something, he thought. "I know her personally. Can you just tell me where I can find her?"

She glanced at a watch. "Onstage in a half hour, sir. Could I get your name and a fifty dollar deposit? No checks, please. The champagne room is available after the performance tonight as well."

"What? Ok, ok, here." He peeled out two precious twenties and a five, already calculating when he could squeeze in the next pool game.

"And your name, sir?"

"Uh, Dave Hope."

"Enjoy your evening, Mr. Hope." The hostess nodded to the bouncer, who moved aside and was no doubt memorizing his face for further mob investigation. Great, he thought.

The current dancer was apparently in the middle of a country-western theme and Dean peered around the stage, trying to make out where the dressing room entrance was. Not surprisingly it was guarded. Well, there goes another hundred. The "security" man raised an eyebrow, then let him through. Dean realized that he should practically be in heaven right now; backstage at a Vegas lounge was on par with winning the lottery. A crowd of girls went by, stilettoes tacking on the floor.

"You look lost." The girl was fastening on a feather headdress.

It was like living in Penthouse, Sam _totally _should have come—"Sorry, I'm just trying to find Madison, do you know if she's back here?"

"Hey, Mad! You gotta visitor!" she called back, eyeing up Dean as she finished with the headdress.

"Who the fuck—" Madison appeared in the hall, stopped, then slowly folded her arms. "Dean. I said I would call you later. I didn't expect you to … Well, what, are you here for my show?"

He dragged his eyes up from the costume, hell, he guessed it was supposed to be Arabian or something. "You're in trouble. I don't think you're safe here."

She took him aside quickly and glared the other girl away. "Super convenient, huh?" she hissed. "If I'm not out there, I lose my job."

"A helluva lot better than losing your heart," Dean shot back. "Those photos? The guy was Rob Nelson, missing for two weeks, and his fiancé was Selina Pritchard. As in, sister to a Jack Pritchard that works here."

"Shh!" She drew back. "… Are you _sure?_ I mean, you think Jack _murdered_ Em?"

A man poked his head down the corridor from the stage. "Hey! What's going on back here? You two wanna have a fireside chat, do it after the show, Madison."

"It's okay, I'm just gonna be a minute," Dean argued. He turned back. "I don't know yet, but yeah, we think he was involved somehow." He noticed Madison's eyes shift nervously back to the stage hall, where the man was approaching.

He took a minute to notice that the man's manager pin read Jack Pritchard.

Pritchard pointed a finger that was meant to be menacing. "Look, propose or whatever _after_ her show. And I better not find that you're the reason she skipped out last night." He moved back his jacket to reveal a gun.

Dean smiled coldly and brought out his own gun. "Mine's bigger."


	8. Little Miss Lover

It was almost funny. Everyone froze; Pritchard calculating what his options were and Madison stuck in tense silence behind Dean. Yeah this was probably a bad idea, but he figured he might as well keep going as long as the adrenaline lasted.

"You have a sister, Selina Pritchard. Where is she."

He blinked. "What? How should I know?"

"You know Rob Nelson's been missing for two weeks."

"Yeah, he was a good friend of mine. Who the hell are you?"

Dean shoved him against the wall, the barrel nuzzled under his chin. Madison inhaled steeply. "You have anything you want to confess? Like, say, helping murder Emma Turner for your sister?"

"Woah, woah! No way! I didn't murder anyone! Rob was seeing her but Selina never found out; that murder wasn't like you think!"

Dean lowered the gun and connected some of the dots. His brow furrowed. "Rob Nelson was cheating on his fiancé with Emma … and who else?"

A rivulet of sweat ran down Pritchard's face. "I dunno, a lot of girls! He spread it out, you know."

"And you let him lie to your sister about it," he spat out, disgusted.

"Hey, I hadn't talked to her in years before I hosted their damn party! What do I care, the guy just wants to enjoy himself! You want any in-depth details why don't you ask your girlfriend here; she knew Rob a couple times herself," he finished righteously.

Dean shot a look at Madison, who looked like she might be sick. He felt the same way. "That true?"

"I—I didn't recognize him in the photos, Dean! There were a lot of guys--"

"Shutup." He felt a wall of rage and wanted to say more but this was neither the time nor the place to lose his temper. Especially when he had a gun aimed at a man's throat. God, how could he have been so … He faced Pritchard. Discipline. "_Tell me_ where Selina is."

He let out a thin sigh. "Best bet is her place. South Hills, Laurel Terrace. …Hey, what the hell!" he exclaimed as Dean took his wallet.

"Looks like I'll be missing the show. Need a refund." He pocketed the three fifties and took Pritchard's gun before lowering his own.

Madison tried to lay a hand on his shoulder but he shrugged her off brusquely. "Dean…"

"Don't."

He didn't realize he had plowed through the crowd and past the hostess again until sunlight hit him like a smack in the face. Welcome to the real world. He squinted and stood in the parking lot, jingling the Impala's keys restlessly. "Fuck!" He kicked over a trashcan with a curse and made himself pace, taking a deep breath. God damn it. He shook his head, frowned and dialed Sam.

"Yeah, what's up?" Sam always managed to anxious.

"Nothing on Jack Pritchard, except for the part where he helped good ol' Rob Nelson get a lay or two or _ten_. Got an address too: Laurel Terrace in South Hills."

"So we're going with the vengeful wife turns to vengeful witch turns to demonic possession theory. That's comforting. The pig heart over here turned out to be nothing, at least. What about Madison?"

"She's fine," he bit shortly. "I'll swing by the twenty-four hour church, get some more holy water, pick you up at The W."

"You okay?"

God, how he hated hearing that. "I'll see you soon."

* * *

Sam folded himself into the passenger seat, miraculously not banging his head on the roof, and noticed Dean's white-knuckled grip on the wheel. The reckless merge into traffic was a clue and Sam fought with the seatbelt before Dean had a chance to crash the Impala into the Tropicana. "Jesus, Dean!"

The hum of the engine and blasting AC/DC did nothing to alleviate the following tense silence. Sam debated whether or not to ask. He leaned against the window, eyeing Dean cautiously. "Okay … What happened?"

Dean gave a tight-lipped half-smile. "Turns out Madison knew Rob Nelson."

That was a low blow, Sam thought. Not that he liked Madison all that much to begin with. "Why didn't she tell us?"

He kept the tight smile and Sam wished he would start yelling instead. "I imagine the words 'oh yeah, I slept with him' don't exactly pop into a discussion, Sam."

"Dean, I'm—"

"I swear to God, do _not _say it," he ground out. "Hell, shouldn't you be dancing around singing 'I told you so'?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "No."

Dean pried one hand off the wheel and ran it over his face. He had never been so worked up over a girl he barely knew. He cleared his throat, conveying a tacit apology. "Let's just kill this bitch and get out of here."

* * *

Laurel Terrace was a mansion, spotlessly new and unwelcoming. The brick house loomed over them, seeming a little too eerie for the palm tree landscaping. Some kind of Victorian oasis dream. Sam watched as Dean popped the trunk and began sifting through weapons. "I thought we were gonna go for an exorcism."

He hefted the Colt. "Yeah, that's great, all we need is an hour to paint a Devil's Trap and a bookmark for those Latin pages."

That was it. Sam grabbed the Colt back, his face clouding. "Dean! You're not using that thing."

"Sam--"

"Look, you liked her. A lot. I get it. But you've been letting her get into this case; that's a demon in there, and it's gonna rip you apart if you go in like this!" Dean's jaw clenched and Sam saw that he had made his point. They stood in a stalemate.

His brother was right. Again. Jesus, Dean, a real pro with the informed decisions this time around, he thought. He was sure Dad would have beaten him silly, doing a kamikaze mission for a cheap girl. That's it, he was never coming back to Vegas again. And he hadn't even gotten to see those two tiger guys. He picked up the chalk and book from the trunk, shoving the musty volume at Sam. "Fine, we'll try it your way, princess. But I'm still takin' the Colt for backup. Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam muttered, following him to the porch.

Dean welcomed the opportunity to finally _do_ something as he examined the lock on the front door, opting for sliding a credit card through. After a minute or two jimmying and Sam breathing annoyingly down his neck, he felt the deadbolt slide and the door swung open. He paused, waiting for any kind of blaring alarm, then eased inside. "Alright, let's move fast. This kind of house, there's probably eight kinds of police alerts going out right now. I got the basement," he whispered.

Sam nodded and moved off towards the staircase, which curled up over a spacious dining room. The demon was definitely living in style. He peered down the upstairs hallway, feeling a little like he was in The Shining, and counted seven bedrooms. Great. He almost preferred the one-room dilapidated cottages to this.

Dean crept into the basement, raising an eyebrow at the fully stocked bar and pool table. A giant television lay dormant in the corner in front of a leather couch set. No dirt floors here. He sneaked a look at the bar selection and made a mental note to come back for the whiskey. A door behind the bar revealed a second stairwell; wine cellar, he guessed. Descending further into the foundation of the house, he was hit with a stench of rot and he was pretty sure it wasn't the wine. He grabbed for the lightbulb chain that dangling against his forehead.

"Huh." Dean took in the scene, which included a gutted pig and an alter decorated with candles, dead roses and those tacky heart-shaped chocolate boxes. The dried blood that caked the alter might as well have been a neon "Sacrifice Here" sign, he thought. So this is where all the victims' hearts ended up. Cupid's secret evil lair. Weird and weirder, he sighed and pulled over a rug to start the Devil's Trap. As he scratched out the chalk symbols against the cement his mind kept wanting to wander back over Madison. He should … what, apologize? She wasn't worth it. But, no, she was and that was the problem. After all this was over maybe it wouldn't hurt to give her a call. Have a few drinks. God, have some more best sex of his life. Maybe she honestly hadn't recognized Rob Nelson; maybe she deserved a second chance.

"Hey."

Dean swung around with the Colt and nearly blew Sam's head off. "Jesus, Sammy!"

"Fuck, Dean, take it easy!" Sam ran a hand through his hair. "No demon upstairs, but it looks like we have the right place. You done?"

"Yeah." Dean pulled the rug over the trap, careful not to smudge the chalk. "Hey, about …" He paused; was he really just going to try and explain his girl problems to Sam? He'd rather be caught dead than relay all his doubts to his younger brother. The only girl information to pass between them was hookup tips and porn stories. "Nevermind."


	9. This Ain't the Summer of Love

_**A/N:** End of the road! It was lovely writing with the Supernatural boys for once; I've enjoyed my little time in Kripke's sandbox._

Cheers!  
Anna

* * *

The demon strolled into the gruesome wine cellar and approached the alter, pulling a plastic bag from inside her purse. The heart was still warm, delicious, and she shivered with anticipation. Suddenly she hit a wall of air, what the— "Oh, _fuck_."

Sam and Dean emerged from behind the staircase, Dean wearing his trademark victory smirk. "Nice to see you too, sweetheart."

Selina Pritchard's body haughtily cocked her head at him, a fresh coat of lipstick shining in the dim light. "Sneaky bastard, aren't you?"

"Aw, no kiss? I'm hurt."

She idly massaged the warm heart in one manicured hand. "Wasn't personal, boy. I had to make sure the goods were guaranteed."

He snorted. "What?"

"You could say I'm a little bit of a picky eater," she purred. "Lovers hearts have more of that, hmm, special touch."

Sam started in on the incantation and prayed that maybe if he said it loud enough Dean would somehow miss the demon's meaning. The demon fell to its knees under the verbal assault, black eyes closed with an ear-splitting scream. Sam stopped as Dean grabbed his arm.

"Whose … whose is that," he whispered, pointing to the heart.

"Oh … Oh she had it coming," the demon panted, crouched almost seductively. "At least, Selina thought so. I'm in it for the desserts; fresh love is _so_ satisfying. And this, this was love at first sight for her. Saw it myself."

"Whose is it!" He didn't want to know, he already knew.

Sam bit his lip. "Dean …"

It looked down at the heart dispassionately and smiled. "Just another cheap girl." Its eyes slid to Dean and the harsh laugh was broken by a scream as Sam plowed back into the exorcism. Dean didn't stay to watch; he was already halfway up the stairs and thinking _nononono why did you leave her alone you fucking idiot oh GOD no_

His cellphone rang as he gunned the Impala past eighty on the strip back to Heavenly Angels. Larry.

"Bad news, looks like another murder over at that Heavenly Angels place. Same thing, heart missing and decapitation. Name's, uhhh, lemme check … Madison Green. No relatives."

* * *

Sam was burning up and the open window only served to let in a fine coating of Arizona dust. Black Sabbath screamed their way through another tape, complementing the scorching sun. He thought he might be sitting in an actual pool of sweat by now. He shot a glance at Dean. Impossible to read, ever since Vegas two days ago. Sam's heart broke for him … he thought of Jess for a moment, the first time in a long time, and knew it would take a while to get better. But it would get better. If nothing else, they had each other. That had to count for something.

The motel room was dingy and small, looking like hundreds of other rooms they had stayed in. Dean clenched the hunting knife in his sleep and wished he had someone to use it on. Keep killing that demon over and over and over; torture it slow instead of the quick exorcism Sam had given it. Take out its insides, _how do you like it?_

One in the morning and he sat up from a nightmare. His first in years. To fix it he went to the nearest bar, some El Rodeo place, and did the thin waitress against the wall out back.

The third night and it was two in the morning when he sat up, gasping back the grief. Vegas bright lights stinging and vivid. He swung his feet down to search for his boots.

"Dean." Sam's voice came suddenly from the opposite bed.

He didn't know what he was supposed to say back, and in the long silence that followed Dean began to wonder if he had even imagined Sam saying anything.

"You can't keep doing this. It wasn't your fault."

Dean rubbed a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat. He made as if to reply but instead stopped himself. He perched on the edge of the bed. After a small eternity he slowly settled back down to the mattress.

It would get better, he told himself. If nothing else, they had each other.  


* * *


End file.
